Forever, By Your Side
by elleyouoh
Summary: Phil Coulson and Melinda May. Their story, from the beginning, till the very end.
1. Chapter 1

The streets are still littered with red, white and blue streamers the day Phillip Coulson is born, in a small town in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. His father is a history teacher, his mother a homemaker, and he is their first and only child. He weighs eight pounds and two ounces, measures twenty inches and lets out quiet cries of protest as he is dragged into the world by a none too gentle doctor.

Phil grows up an average boy.

He is of an average height and average weight, and attends the local elementary school with all the other regular boys and girls. He plays baseball in the little leagues, does all his chores and homework and spends time with the neighbour's children in the front yard in the afternoons, supervised by his mother who often presents him with treats as rewards for good behaviour.

His favourite in summer is her Apple pie, with a golden and flakey crust, wrapped around a piping hot filling of caramelised apple slices. It's not too sweet and not too sour, and she always serves it with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade; the lemons picked from a little tree in their back garden.

In winter, his parents make hot chocolate from scratch, and the family of three stay warm huddled by the fireplace, trading stories about their day.

They're an average family, with an average house and an average life.

But the first eight years of Phil's life are safe, and happy.

* * *

He is nine years old when his father dies.

He doesn't remember the day well; only a blur of tears and terror as his mother explains to him as simply as possible how it happened, and then the condolences from every person he encountered. He remembers everything moving around him, his whole world shifting and then crumbling.

While they were not by any means wealthy before his father's passing, they had more than enough to live comfortably. But now his mother is left to raise him alone, strapped for cash and not enough hours in a day or days in a week to earn enough. He begins to do odd tasks around the neighbourhood, delivering papers, mowing lawns, walking dogs, trying to help her out, but even then, it's not enough.

They sell off many possessions - Phil's father had always been a sentimental man - and keep only the red corvette that they had been restoring together before the man died. It is several years before he opens up the garage door once more to work on the car, to complete the task he and his father had started.

He names the car Lola.

* * *

Phil is smaller than the other boys in middle school, and enjoys studying, learning, more than anything. He has his own group of friends, kids that share the same interests - to have lunch with and work together in classes, but once school is over, he's off to the local convenience store to help stock shelves in the back. His mother always insists that she doesn't need his help, to save the little money he earns for himself, but he's stubborn and makes sure she gets it one way or another.

He does save a little for himself, hoarding pennies and dimes and the occasional dollar in a jar on his bedside table labeled "Collectibles". He still has many of his childhood treasures saved - those that are priceless to him but worthless to others - a particularly round stone he'd found by the river while skipping rocks, a broken seashell from a vacation they took to the beach one year, a pen with no more ink that his father had once carried around with him. He has other things too of course - various well-read Captain America comic books, miniature figurines, random cogs and screws from old watches and clocks. His mother teases him about it, saying that his fascination for memorabilia came from his father.

Phil kisses a girl for the first time in eighth grade. It's just a peck on the lips shared with his date for a school dance, Michelle, who smiles prettily at him, blushing, before, running off to tell her friends about it. He doesn't remember the kiss itself, just the sound of her giggles, the butterflies in his stomach.

His first "serious" girlfriend is Lisa, who sits two rows in front of him in English in tenth grade. They lose their virginity to each other, and last nearly four months before she breaks up with him. There's no hard feelings really, even when he sees her flirting with a member of their school's football team not three weeks later.

He understands it, he really does.

When he was younger, there had been a point where he wanted to be one of those guys - the same uniform, logos blazing, running out on the field as part of a team, all working towards achieving the same goal. But his father had taught him how to play, and he can't bring himself to do it without the man's guidance and support.

All he has left is the knowledge and wisdom his father had managed to impart on him in the nine years they were fortunate enough to spend together, and he clings on to it, unwilling to let it go.

By the time turns seventeen, Phil has his life planned out ahead of him. He'll graduate from high school, go to college, study history. He'll get a job, build a life for himself.

His mother always did say he was a dreamer.

And he did dream - of the ideal life. A house that felt just as warm as his childhood home, Lola parked in the garage, a sensible distance away from the mini-van in the front driveway. He imagines the woman he will end up spending his life with; he wants the life that his parents shared together - however short it had been. He wants to know the moment he meets the one for him, to win her over and build a future together.

He knows that he wants children, plural. Growing up as an only child had it's positives, he was the center of attention, there was never anyone to fight with. But he had been lonely, and he doesn't want that for his future kids. He knows that he'll love them.

And so he dreams, imagines, and plans.

* * *

The thing about life is that it doesn't care about your plans. It throws curveballs at you and expects you to dodge them; and whatever outcome occurs if you fail, is on you.

He goes off to college at age eighteen. He's made his plans, and he's following them. It's supposed to be the beginning of his new life, his adult life.

It's the year everything begins.

It's also the year his mother dies.

He skips classes for a week, holed up his dorm room, before he pulls himself together and gets on with life. It isn't going to sit around and wait for him. His parents had already given him everything he needed to survive in the world, and he wasn't going to let them down by falling apart.

He doesn't have anyone on his team anymore, no one to truly support him, and so he must adapt to surviving on his own.

He throws himself into his school work, studying harder than he ever has. It's history, it's something he enjoys, something he loves, something he's loved his entire life. The more he learns, the more he wants to learn; hours upon hours spent at the library, combing through book after book.

He's intelligent. He's observant.

He notices things. Inconsistencies. Half-truths. Complete lies.

Where there are secrets there must be people keeping them, and so he digs further.

Notices more.

Until one day he notices the man with eyepatch watching him.

* * *

He is just shy of nineteen years old when Nick Fury recruits him for an organisation the man calls S.H.I.E.L.D. It's a peace keeping agency headed by Peggy Carter herself; a woman who had been integral to the success of missions carried out by Captain America and his allies during the second world war. During the war against Hydra.

Fury is clear that joining means dedicating himself completely to the cause; to fight for the greater good, to protect the world, to be the shield. Phil has nothing left to lose the day he packs his bags and leaves his life behind for good, following Nicholas Fury into the unknown.

Fury puts him through his paces, makes sure he knows what he's getting himself into. There's so much to learn, so much to study, and he thrives off of it. It's the first time he's truly found purpose since he lost his mother, and he thinks both she and his father would be proud of the man he is trying to become.

And so he trains, hard, for the next three years, absorbing all the knowledge he can, learning all the skills. He learns to fight, with his hands, with his body. He learns the weapons of the trade - knives, guns, rifles. Fury thinks he'll make a good field agent once he goes through proper training at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.

He looks forward to the experience.


	2. Chapter 2

He's in the last weeks of his first year at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Communications Academy when all potential field agents have to begin training with the cadets from Operations. Phil is both nervous and excited at the prospect - Communications is all about liaising and planning missions, but those at the Operations Academy are training to be specialists. The kind of secret agents authors write novels about, that movies were made about. Those who were constantly kicking ass in the field; he would be the man in the shadows, watching their every move, controlling them from afar.

There very much appears to be a rivalry between the different S.H.I.E.L.D. Academies, that much he can tell strolling into Operations with his fellow trainees. The cadets here appear to have more brawn than brains, all tall, strong, muscled - could probably kill you with twelve different methods in three seconds flat.

Phil does not particularly relish the thought of being pummeled to pieces.

They are set to train with the first year cadets, and as he stands across the room, just observing them, his eyes land on one in particular.

It's her gaze that catches his attention first; she's just standing silently amongst the other cadets, quiet, unassuming, but there's something about the way she looks at him that has him intrigued. The second thing he notices is how small she is, practically dwarfed by her peers. There are very few female cadets, and even then, they rarely came in such small packages. She suddenly smirks, and he's ashamed to admit that it takes him one moment too long to realise the change in her facial expression is because she's caught him staring.

Their moment is broken when one of the senior agents in charge calls for their attention. Phil is well aware that today is just an introductory session, to get them used to interacting with those who have different training. They all stand and watch as two of the third year Operations cadets step up and take their opening stances, before they attack.

He is mesmerised, and looks on with rapt attention as they fight, dodging one another's moves without a pause, as if without a second thought. He almost cannot keep up, and misses the finishing blow, because in the blink of an eye the fight is over, one cadet pinned to the ground by the other, and there are a couple of cheers from the first years, supporting their upperclassmen.

A loud cough from another of their supervising agents brings the room to a silence once more, and they wait with bated breaths for what is to come next.

"May, you're up first. Who wants to give it a go?"

Phil holds back a smile as the cadet he'd made eye contact with earlier steps up to the mats, straightening her back as she stands at attention. He studies her a little more closely now - it's what he's trained to do. Her eyes are brown, full of light - he feels like she knows so much more than she'll ever let on, than she'll ever say out loud. Her hair is dark too, parted in the middle and pulled tightly into two braids which lay over her shoulders, hanging to almost mid-waist length.

She looks adorable.

And deadly.

Clearly no one else sees it, because he can hear the snickers from his fellow trainees, the vulgar things they're whispering under their breath, the way her expression hardens when she hears it too.

Without a second thought, he steps forward, and the laughter increases tri fold, until one of the instructors silences them by clearing his throat, and gestures for Phil to go ahead.

He keeps a steady stride as he approaches her, May. When they meet in the middle, he extends a hand out to her, and barely manages to suppress a snort when she briefly glances down, before looking back up at his face.

"Phil Coulson. Thought you might like to know before we begin. I promise I won't twist your arm… too hard," he says with a smile which widens as she returns it.

"Melinda May," she responds, accepting his handshake. Her hand is small, her fingers slim, and her grip is unsurprisingly firm. "You wouldn't dare. I'd whip your ass."

He can't help but raise his eyebrows at her vulgarity, and she tilts her head to the side and nods up at him. She extracts her hand from his, and they take two steps back, pausing for just a moment, before he surges forward towards her.

She's fast, dodging his attacks, and he has just enough speed to avoid her blows. He throws a punch at her, but she turns, blocking it, whipping her head round as she does so and her braids slap him across the face, stunning him for a split second. She lunges at him, and anticipating a kick to the chest, he ducks, hoping her leg will just fly over his head. What he doesn't expect is for her to leap above him and knock him down onto the mats, flipping them so she's above him, pressing his head down against the ground as she lowers her entire body weight onto his back. She's light, doesn't weigh much, but she's strong enough to hold him down for the five seconds required to end the match.

He can hear the whistles and cheers around the room, and ignores them as she climbs off him and offers him a hand, pulling him back to his feet. She nods at him again, smirking, before returning to her side of the room. As he does the same, he raises a hand to where he'd been savagely whipped by her hair, knowing that it probably left a mark, and smiles to himself.

* * *

The next time he and Melinda May have a chance to speak alone is during his second year at Communications. He's taken to jogging in the mornings to build his stamina, to clear his head before training - but this morning, he's up before the sun is, unable to go back to sleep, too many thoughts, too many worries. He changes and sets out for his usual path, feeling the cold wind chilling his skin, listening to the sounds of nature. The sky is only just beginning to lighten, the birds are calling, and he can hear the twigs and leaves crunch beneath each footfall… footfalls?

He almost skids to stop, quickly turning, and he hadn't been hearing things, because there's a figure coming up behind him, slowing down as they spot him standing there.

"Coulson?"

He frowns, blinks and does a double take. It's been two weeks since he last saw her during a training session. They'd been sparring with different partners, but had made eye contact as they often did at least once when they were around one another. She had brushed one of her signature braids over her shoulder as she turned to offer him a smirk, and he had smiled back.

He almost doesn't recognise her now. Her hair has been cropped to her shoulders, and she has... bangs? He's not completely sure what the correct terminology is, but he also knows that he should probably make a polite comment about her new haircut.

"May, wow. Nice um, I like your new hair," he finally manages to get out, and she just laughs at him, shaking her head as she does.

"Wanted a change. Also people kept complaining about being hit in the face. No idea what they meant by that," she responds, moving to stand beside him. She looks different like this, but he thinks he could probably get used to it. He hadn't really minded being slapped in the face by one of her braids, but maybe that was just him.

"Yeah, couldn't possibly know what they meant by that," he snorts, making a show of rubbing at the side of his face, and she scoffs right back at him, clapping him hard on the shoulder before taking off.

"Come on Coulson."

He just stands there for a moment, laughing as he watches her run off, shaking his head before chasing after her.

"I'll catch up."

* * *

They spar a few times after that, during their second and third years at the Academy. She's not a friend, but he considers her an acquaintance, an ally in the cause that they support. She's quiet, only talks when she really wants to, and has very few friends over in operations. Sometimes he fears he may be analysing her too much, but argues that it is just the future field agent in him taking over.

He's trained to be observant.

She smiles, a lot, when she thinks others aren't watching, and has a great sense of humour. Or at least that's how he feels until he falls prey to one of her particularly vicious pranks at the beginning of their third year.

He doesn't know how she does it, but after he wakes up one perfectly normal morning and carries out his routine, he returns to the Communications dorms and finds that all of his Captain America boxers have been strung up across the building. There's a crowd of his fellow trainees gathered around laughing hysterically; no one could have spent a day around him without learning he was a huge fan of Steve Rogers, and he knows that they're all making fun of him.

He's beyond mortified, and doesn't even know how to begin getting them down - he can't imagine how someone even got them up there, until he spots a familiar face at the edge of the crowd, smirking, and he groans internally.

How had she even gotten into his room? What else had she taken? Worse, what other secrets of his had she managed to uncover?

He can only give her a forced smile as he pushes past the hoard of people, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, heading into the building, the sound of laughter fading as the door slams shut behind him.

* * *

His boxers have vanished by the next morning, and he doesn't see them again for a week, until one evening when he returns to his room after a particularly straining day, and finds that they've been laundered and folded, sitting in neat piles on his bed.

As he goes to return them to the correct drawers, he finds something lying on top.

Frowning, he picks it up, inspecting it and almost dropping it when he realises what it is.

A Captain America Trading Card.

He's always wanted one - they're rare, some of them almost impossible to find. And even if he could find them, it wasn't as if a secret agent in training could afford something like that. He turns it in his hand, and can't help his wide grin as he runs his finger over the black marker lettering.

Peggy Carter.

If this is the kind of apology gift he receives after a little suffering on his behalf, he might just let Melinda May prank him more often.

* * *

As the months go by, their training increases, and Phil finds himself missing May's company. He understands her humour better now, and they've shared words during and after sparring sessions together. Still he feels like he knows next to nothing about her; and that anything he did know came from his observations. He expects he'll see her next in another month, either on the mats if they pair up, or at the range. She's a great shot, but he doesn't do too badly himself. The last place he expects to see her is at a communications run dance elective to prepare field agents for undercover missions.

"May."

"Coulson."

Phil watches her as she surveys the room with a disinterested look, before walking up next to him, and fixing him with a hesitant smile.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he tells her, breaking the ice, smirking as she smiles.

"I counted on you being here," she says, grin widening.

The other cadets begin picking partners, and he scans the room briefly, before turning back to her and offering her an arm.

"Shall we?"

She snorts at him, rolling her eyes, and hooks her arm through his.

"Suppose I could do worse."

Dancing, Phil likes it. He thinks that it is it's own art form, the way two people move together, their steps mirroring one another's. It's almost romantic.

"Ugh."

Clearly May does not agree with him. It's not even that she's bad at it; in fact, he thinks they make a pretty good match; she fits well into his arms, and they're not stepping on each other's toes. She mumbles something about it being a waste of time, and he supposes with all the skills she already has mastery over, this one really is useless.

She lasts four more lessons, and while he's disappointed, he's really not surprised when she disappears after two weeks.

* * *

He lets out a loud groan as she pins him to the mats for the fourth time that day; this time knocking him flat on his back, and keeping him there with a foot on his chest.

"I don't think I can do this," he pants as she lets him up, before heading over to the edge of the room and tossing him a water bottle. He catches it in one hand above his head, uncapping the bottle and taking a couple of deep gulps, almost sighing in relief at the cool water running down his throat. He wishes he had a bucket of it to dump over his head.

"Stop dropping your left side. You're leaving too much of an opening for your opponent."

"Not everyone is born with your skills May."

She smiles at him, shaking her head, and he likes this. Whatever this is. The banter, the sparring, having someone to talk to? He has pals back in communications; he's also got Garrett, but Garrett's an ass and Melinda is just different. Makes him feel comfortable in a way that no one else can.

"You'll be fine Coulson. If Blake managed to pass his field exam, you'll ace it."

She sits down on the mats beside him, and bumps her shoulder against his. He knows it's her way of comforting him, and just the thought of that makes him feel better; lifts a little of the weight off his chest.

"Easy for you to say."

She's already finished her exams, passed with flying colours he expects. Probably already found out where she was being assigned after graduation. He feels a small pang of sadness when he realises that their days here are numbered.

"I'll miss it you know. The academy. It's gonna be a strange adjustment," she admits with a shrug, tilting her head to the side and staring at him. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which reaches nearly half way down her back now. It's long again, nearly as long as it had been the day she whipped him in the face. He wonders if that much time has really passed, but then realises it's been three years since he met her, and four years at the academy. He's sentimental, likes holding on to the past, but that's not a personality that suits someone in their profession. They need to learn to let things go.

"Nostalgia's fine. But then life happens," he tells her, and they share a moment of silence before she pushes herself back up and waves him towards her.

"Come on, Coulson. Let's see what you've got."

* * *

He's not the only one without family at graduation. Many of the cadets have hidden the secret of their true profession from their family members; a spies life was designed for those who could survive alone.

Someone like him.

With nothing holding him back, no one to miss him should the worst occur.

Many of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most legendary agents attend the ceremony - Fury claps him on the back, tells him he's proud of him, and he actually has to conceal his emotions when he is introduced to the Peggy Carter, as one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best and brightest.

He finds himself standing there in awe, just listening to the conversation between the two, until someone draws his attention by tapping on his shoulder. He turns to see May standing there with a bright smile, face framed by waves today. She had made an effort for the ceremony, knowing Peggy would be in attendance, and she was...

She was beautiful.

That one thought clouds his judgement, pushing aside his doubts about forming connections with other people. Who knows where they'll be off to tomorrow, and the day after that. Maybe they could have just one night. Maybe they could have more. He didn't know.

"When this is over, do you want to grab a drink?" he asks, waving his arm to gesture around at the crowds of people scattered around the lawn.

She smiles at him, and it warms his heart.

"Sorry Coulson. I'm flying out with Peggy tonight," she says, nodding towards where Fury and Peggy are still engaged in a discussion.

He tries not to let his disappointment show, shrugging. He's taken his shot, missed. Time to move on.

But then she reaches out a hand and pats him on the arm, and for a reason he doesn't think he'll ever be able to explain, the fact that she has a smile on her face stops prevents him from feeling completely unhappy.

"Next time we're in the same city, I'll take you up on that offer, Agent Coulson."

"It's a deal, then, Agent May."

It's one that he looks forward to keeping.


	3. Chapter 3

The lives of spies are nothing like those one might see in fiction. Yes, there is danger, action, mystery, betrayal and drama. There's guns, bombs and explosions, missions and undercover. But there's also a trail of death and destruction, the choice to fight for what you believe to be right, the people you save, the people you lose.

The people you leave behind.

The people you hold on to.

Even from a young age, Melinda Qiaolian May knows this better than anyone else.

* * *

Her father is a civilian. William May. At first glance, there is absolutely nothing particularly noticeable about the man. Taking a second glance does little to change anyone's opinion. He immigrated to the United States from China as a boy, and went on to get a college education; a stable job. He was a man that watered his own plants, chatted with the neighbours over the fence, well liked by those that knew him. He liked to golf in the early mornings, play chess in the afternoon, enjoy the peace and calm.

A simple man.

A simple life.

Her mother is a government operative for an intelligence agency. Lian May. She too is also an immigrant of China, but that is the sole thing the two have in common. She flies around the world stealing secrets, keeping peace, defeating the enemy. Trained in four different varieties of martial arts, a weapons expert, a list of the lives of the people she has eliminated in the past permanently ingrained into her mind, there is no place she truly calls home.

She is a spy.

Spies do not lead simple lives.

* * *

They meet in the autumn of 1958.

Their story starts off like any other - boy meets girl, girl meets boy. William has a stall at the local farmer's market on Sundays, selling preserved fruit and homemade jams, all stored in little glass jars, plaid fabric tied over the top with twine. He chats with customers, listening to their stories, sharing his own - until one day, a new and unfamiliar face shows up.

She's mysterious, speaks English with an accent, like him, and doesn't talk much, even when prompted. At first, the look she regales him with when he tries a joke is enough to convince him that his neighbours will soon be calling the authorities to report that he has gone missing, because he's pretty sure she has the capability of ending his life with her pinkie. She doesn't even crack a smile when he attempts another, and by the time the sale is done, she's taking her change and vanishing into the crowd, gone in the blink of an eye.

He doesn't expect to see her again.

But then she comes back the next week.

And the week after that.

He tells her another joke.

She still doesn't smile, but this time, she doesn't frown either.

* * *

Melinda is born in November of 1965, and it is the best day of both her parents lives.

Her father is elated.

He'd always wanted a family, and in his eyes, his little girl is perfect. She's red and wrinkly and doesn't cry, just screws up her face occasionally in displeasure before squirming in his arms. Only hours old and she already reminds him so much of her mother; her eyes are brown when she opens them to look out into the world, and she can't have seen all that much, but the expression on her face seems to be telling him that she knows all the secrets of the universe.

Her mother is relieved.

Sharing her life with a civilian man was not on the list of things she had sought to eventually accomplish one day, but it wasn't something she could have fought, could have pushed away. She had known children would be a possibility after they had married, even with her job, the dangers she faced on a day to day basis. Part of her feared bringing a child into a world with so many unknown terrors; the other part knew that she was fighting to make it better.

She hadn't found out about the baby she was carrying until she almost lost it, and the next seven months had been filled with constant stress and worry, that something was wrong with it.

And that if there was, it was her fault.

So when baby is presented to her, wrapped up in a blanket, sleeping peacefully, she feels nothing but relief. That she's healthy, all in one piece. Dark hair and brown eyes, a little nose, a little smile.

The hospital staff comment that she's the quietest, most gentle baby they've ever seen, but for some reason the other infants in the nursery start crying when she's brought in.

Her father looks on in confusion while her mother smiles proudly.

They name her Melinda, and vow to protect her for as long as they are able.

* * *

Having a child doesn't make too drastic a change to Lian May's lifestyle. She still touches down in four continents within a week long period, spending more time in the air than on solid ground. She trains and fights with her team and they travel the world saving the lives of some, and ending the lives of others. Her days are filled with breaking codes and cracking safes and stealing secrets, all in the name of protection, all for the greater good.

But she takes more time away now, mostly evenings and weekends, but whenever she can. To go home, to see her husband, to see their daughter.

Sometimes she spends no more than thirty minutes by Melinda's crib, just holding her, soothing her silent tears, singing her back to sleep. The weight of her child in her arms feels right, feels natural, and she always brushes a kiss to her little forehead or cheek, before setting her back down beneath her blankets and taking off once more.

At work, the mission comes first. Crossing off the mark, keeping the secrets.

At home, she's a mother, and her family is all that matters.

* * *

Growing up, Melinda was mostly a Daddy's girl.

Her mother travelled around too often for them to follow her as she flew from city to city, so the family permanently resided in Pennsylvania, close enough to her place of work so she could visit often, but far away enough for them to make a run for it if things ever went south.

Her father didn't work in the first five years of her life, staying home to take care of her while her mother was off fighting monsters, slaying dragons. He'd managed to sell that story to her until she started elementary school, and came home with a book she'd found on dragons, proceeding to let him know that either he had been lying to her, or Mommy had been lying to him their entire marriage.

They'd had to tell her the truth then, but not before making her promise not to speak about it to anybody, not her friends at school, not her teachers, and definitely not the neighbours who were ever curious about the May family, the mysterious mother who was never around, the stay at home father and the strange little girl who stared at them blankly when they said hello, and rarely ever played in the yard like the other kids.

For people who wanted to stay hidden in plain sight, they sure were the talk of the town.

* * *

Melinda falls in love for the first time in her life at age seven.

Her parents take her for a vacation in New York City - her mother takes the time off work to make it happen, and she's never been happier. They visit all the tourist attractions, see all the sights, and on Christmas Day, the three of them take to the ice at Rockefeller Centre, the lights of the Christmas tree dazzling, but not outshining the smile Melinda has on her face as she moves around the rink.

The amount of time she spends on her butt versus actually upright in the skates is debatable, but she loves all of it, and spends the next month begging her parents for skating lessons. Her father wants to cave and let her do it, even promises to change his work schedule to accommodate her if needed, but her mother tells her to prove to them how much she really wants it before she'll agree.

And want it she does.

She works tirelessly for almost four months while her mother is off on an undercover operation somewhere "classified", collecting newspaper clippings, reading books at the local library, all in the name of research. She makes her father take her around to all the local rinks, and picks up flyers, records information, asking all the correct questions and documenting the answers in a little journal. And in the end, she compiles it all into a neat presentation, along with a chart of the best place to take her lessons, the best times to do so without interfering with her parent's schedules, and hands them to her mother, along with her second grade report card, which displayed only A's.

Her mother reads through the entire thing, completely expressionless, before her parents share a long and silent conversation, consisting of only both their glares, and her sitting quietly on the floor in front of them, thumbing the bent corners of the book containing all her hard work, just waiting for their decision.

It feels like forever, but she's been counting the seconds in her head, and it's really only been three minutes and forty six seconds before her mother sighs with a reluctant smile and nods. She runs into their arms, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck, not a rare, but somewhat uncommon display of affection between the two.

She doesn't catch the way her father rolls his eyes at her mother.

She doesn't see the wide smile her mother offers in return.

* * *

Melinda is good at almost everything she does, and figure skating is no exception.

She trains diligently, waking up earlier in the mornings to practice, losing her free time on weekends in order to have more hours on the ice. She lands her first double jump at age nine, her double axel at eleven. Her coaches all commend her incredible progress, sing praises about her excellent technique and urge her father to put her in competitions.

She's initially a little reluctant, but one of her coaches tells her that if she did enter competitions, she could one day be like Dorothy Hamill, and that is all it takes to convince her.

Her mother begins dragging her out of bed long before sunrise whenever she's home, the pair doing Tai Chi together to help strengthen her core, keep her relaxed. Her father can only watch with a smile as she runs through these routines alone in her bedroom whenever her mother is out of town.

When she's on the ice, all her worries and problems are gone. She isn't thinking about how there might come a day where her mother doesn't return home to them, nor about how she has noticed her parents have grown increasingly colder to one another, to a point where the atmosphere at the dinner table is colder than when she's at the rink. She lets her coach put her into a fancy costume and enter her in competitions, and she stops being herself, putting on the persona of someone else.

She's good at pretending.

Good at smiling to the judges, going about her routines with energy, attacking her jumps and spins like they are hurdles to be conquered.

She knows that she's fooled everyone when she is the one standing at the top of the podium at the end of the day, medal hanging around her neck, trophy in her hands, a grin plastered on her face as her father tries to work his way around his giant camera.

The day of her last competition ever coincides with the news of her parents' impending divorce.

She's not surprised.

They've been having problems for the past two years, and while her mother is a super spy, her father is not, and she can tell that he is unhappy. Her parents splitting up means moving to Arizona with her father - there will be no custody battle - her mother's job is too important to her, too important to the safety of their country, of the world, to give up.

Her father has never been a fan of Pennsylvania, and she doesn't make a comment when he tells her they'll be relocating. She has no real attachments to the home she grew up in, only the two people who raised her, and her mother promises to visit as often as she can.

It's not as often as either of them will like.

But it's all they have.

* * *

She starts martial arts classes once they are settled in Arizona, and even manages to impress her mother the next time she is in town. Melinda discovers that she likes having something to attack, to let her feelings out, hitting the punching bags until her knuckles are bruised, letting them heal for a few days before bruising them again.

She tries all sorts of fighting styles, judo, karate, taekwondo, paying close attention to the techniques, the details, the differences between them. Fitting in isn't easy, but she works hard at school, even harder at the gym, and the day she manages to pin one of her instructors to the mats, she wonders what it might be like to do what her mother does, travel around the world fighting evil.

* * *

At sixteen, she moves back to Pennsylvania. It is initially supposed to be a temporary stay, after her mother is injured in the field, but as she settles back into her routine there, she doesn't want to go back to Arizona. She loves her father, and he does so much for her, but she's old enough now to know what she wants, and what she wants is to try her hand at the things her mother is an expert it.

She takes to spying on her neighbours, the gossipy housewives from several years back still watching her warily as she jogs through the streets in the morning. She sneaks around their homes, goes through their trash, pilfers their mail, just to prove that she can, ignoring the legality of her actions.

She expects her mother to catch her - is waiting for the moment really. She'll have to sit through the lectures about the stupidity of what she is doing, listen as her mother questions her sanity, brings up arguments from years ago and yell at her about mistakes she made when she was younger. There will be three days of stony silence and then she'll be forgiven. And hopefully it will convince her mother that she's seriously interested in her line of work, that she is willing to commit to it.

When her mother doesn't say anything - even after three weeks, she begins to grow suspicious, until she comes home from school one afternoon and finds a well dressed woman lounging in their sitting room, drinking a cup of tea. She just observes her silently - taking in the well cut dress suit, the nonchalant expression and relaxed stance, before mentally shrugging to herself and heading for the stairs to ditch her belongings in her bedroom.

"You remind me of your mother," a voice calls out before she can take another step. British . Odd but not uncommon. She had never seen anyone else visit, but her mother must have friends somewhere.

"I tried to recruit her once, quite some time before you were born actually."

This piques her interest, and she drops her bag by the stairs instead - easy access incase she needs to flee, and walks back down the hall until she can see the woman again. She's older, in her late fifties or early sixties, but still so poised, so elegant. Melinda can picture her as some sort of spy - she can also see her as an aristocrat, at a fancy afternoon tea.

The woman smiles, setting down her tea and rising, hands slowly smoothing down her skirt, and Melinda barely has a moment to blink before a knife is being hurled towards her. She almost drops to the ground to avoid being hit, but she's not one to run from a fight, and she throws herself backwards instead, flipping backwards in the air and catching the dagger by it's handle. She tests the weight in her hands, spinning it with her fingers - the blade is sharp, and the woman's aim had been flawless - had she reacted a second too slowly she'd have a knife embedded in her right shoulder, just far enough to miss a major artery.

The woman moves towards her, one hand held out, and Melinda is actually stunned about how to react, until she snatches the knife out of her grip and slips it back into her garter, tugging her skirts neatly back down, before again extending her hand. Melinda eyes it warily before accepting the handshake.

"Peggy Carter. Lovely to meet you. Now that all that is out of the way, why don't you tell me what you've heard about the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?"


	4. Chapter 4

When Phil had envisioned working for a top secret government intelligence organisation as a field agent, he'd pictured actually, well, going out into the field, seeing a little action. Instead he finds himself at a base in a "classified" location doing the same things they did back at the Academy. And when he does get sent out as part of a team, he is left with the worse jobs possible.

He's only a Level One agent of course, and it's like high school all over again with the way Level Twos and Threes hog all the good assignments, and they're left as the clean up crew.

He's disposed of no less than two dozen dead bodies in the past few months, cleared up the rubble from four explosions and bagged evidence according to the instructions of annoying Level Two agents from Sci-Tech, who complain about absolutely everything. He's even had to put on one of their biohazard suits and wade through "potentially" radioactive garbage because they aren't technically cleared for field work and use that as an excuse to not take a swim in toxic waste.

He hasn't even had a chance to use his gun. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing he hasn't shot anyone yet. But he's only flashed his badge twice. Twice.

It's really quite disappointing.

But he toughens up and strives through it - at least he's not dead yet.

* * *

Six months out of the Academy, Fury shows up and rescues him from the Hell Hole. It's his personal nickname for the piss poor excuse of base he's been living at, and takes him to a base in New York City where he starts doing actual meaningful work. He guesses someone has to do the nitty gritty work, and he's just glad it's not him anymore.

For the next three months, he gets to plan missions, organise extraction teams, quarterback things from behind cover. He gets to point his gun and show his badge and come up with excuses to baffle the local authorities. He's not in charge or making the hard calls - there are senior agents responsible for that, but he finally feels like part of something important, like he's making a difference.

Not that clearing away dead bodies before they piled up and freaked out the general public wasn't playing a vital part in keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. under the radar.

He's still only a Level One Agent - doesn't get to pick his missions, but when one with a familiar specialist listed lands on the desk of the agent who sits behind him, he offers to do the guy's paperwork for the next two weeks just to be assigned to the case.

It's been nine months since graduation, and Melinda May still owes him that drink.

* * *

Phil sees her again for the first time before the mission briefing on the thirty third floor at the Triskelion. It's an amazing building - he'd spent nearly ten minutes in the foyer just stunned by the design.

He's not ashamed to admit it.

He's busy examining the Wall of Valour when someone claps a hand on his shoulder and he nearly leaps a foot in the air, clapping a hand over his mouth to stop the scream from escaping his lips. He whips around, other hand on his chest, ready to berate whoever had tried to scare him half to death, when he comes face to face with Melinda May.

She's standing there with a cheeky smile, arms pulled across her chest and he sighs, shaking his head at her antics. She really hasn't changed one bit. Her hair has been pulled up into a high ponytail, but he can tell that it's been trimmed - it's shorter than he remembers. She's dressed in the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. gear, dark colours and combat boots and she looks good.

"Nice suit."

She's smirking now, looking him up and down and he scoffs, following close behind her as she leads them up to the higher levels. The other agents riding in the elevator with them mostly ignore the look on his face as he looks out over the Potomac with glee, trying to drink in the scenery, absorb it all into his memory. He's so distracted May has to actually grab him by the elbow and pull him away from the view when they reach the correct floor.

"Come on Coulson, you can ride the elevator again after the briefing."

He tries to deny that the thought of doing so actually excites him, but he's pretty sure she's figured it out from his expression. He's not really ashamed - not everyone had the opportunity like her to work around here, especially not fresh out of the Academy. But May had always been incredible - having a famous spy for a mother and the founder of their very organisation as her supervising officer had some people screaming nepotism - but for anyone who knew her personally, and he liked to think that he did, she was nothing short of brilliant and didn't need connections to make her way in the world.

He's looking forward to working together again - they had made a pretty good team back at the Academy.

* * *

They're sent on a retrieval operation in Sausalito, and Melinda meets Lola for the first time as they're boarding the jet to take them there, and the car is sitting right in the middle of the plane. She wonders how he swung it - keeping his own vehicle for use on missions. She's probably driven around in seven different cars since she reached D.C., and she knows that she's tested at least three different aircrafts and four bikes. They're all great in the moment, but none can replicate the feeling of the one before it and she's learned to adapt to the constant change.

But this car, she has to admit is pretty cool.

She had heard tales of Coulson's precious corvette, mostly from him - she could tell that the car meant a lot to him, so she avoids just leaping over the car door into the passenger's seat, lounging back and resting her legs on the dashboard. There is a time and place for making fun of him, and this isn't one. She admires the shiny red paint and the silver rims, and he grins at her, unable to contain his excitement.

She hopes he can keep a straight face while they're undercover.

She is not looking forward to having the mission compromised, or having to resort to gassing the entire room including him to she can make an escape with the item they need to "retrieve" and having to drag his dead weight along with her. Either that or she'll have to knock out the target and possibly get them all shot at, or just ditch Coulson and get the item to safety.

It would be easier if she could make the decision herself, instead of waiting for their commander to tell her what to do should the situation call for it. One wrong move and they could fail, lose the item, lose a team member.

She doesn't know him well enough to truly mourn, but she'll probably be upset if he gets himself killed and she isn't there to stop it.

* * *

They get changed as soon after they touch down in California, and when Phil makes his way back to the main room of their safe house, he is taken aback at May's undercover wear. She's sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed, reading through the mission brief again and he honestly never thought a day would come where he would see Melinda May dressed like this. She's in a floral print dress, hair curled and swept to one side and a large cream coloured wide brim hat is atop her head, drooping on either side.

She looks cute.

And ridiculous.

Yet moments later when she looks up at him, she's the one who snorts at his sensible dress shirt and slacks.

"Going for the bad boy look Coulson?" she asks him, tugging at his rolled up shirt sleeves, and he can only grumble under his breath about how he regrets thinking this would be fun. He had conveniently forgotten how much she appeared to enjoy making fun of him.

Still he forces a fake smile, which she returns, and they stare at one another for several moments before she bursts into laughter and shakes her head, the hat swaying as she does. He offers her his arm, like any gentleman would, and considers it a success when she only rolls her eyes at him once all the way from the safe house to the coffee shop where they would be waiting for their mark.

He's impressed.

It had been a twenty minute drive.

* * *

They sit across from one another at a corner table, and he orders them two coffees while she takes advantage of the waiter's cover to scan the shop. She tilts her head to the left to signal that their mark has yet to arrive and he taps his fingers against the table silently, just once, to acknowledge that he's received her message.

He begins a casual conversation once their drinks arrive, prattling on about nonsensical things from his childhood to fill the void as he stirs in his sugars and cream. It would be too suspicious if they didn't speak at all - silence was acceptable if you were alone, but with two of them, it would only draw attention. So he talks and she listens, occasionally picking up her silver spoon to stir the dark liquid in her cup, never raising it to her lips, never taking a sip.

It takes him an hour to notice.

Some spy he is.

"You hate coffee, don't you?" he asks her, voice lowering a little.

The look she gives him says it all.

Still, he kind of wants the confirmation. He stares at her for a moment to make sure he has her attention, before blinking once, and the she's leaning over, both her hair and the ridiculous hat giving them some cover from the rest of the patrons.

"Come on, I've already told you so much about me. How about one little detail?"

She's narrowing her eyes at him now, and he's really glad that he'd forced her to lean over, because had anyone else observed her expression, they would surely be convinced that he was going to be murdered very soon.

"Fine. I hate coffee," she says, glare intensifying and he's so dead when this mission is over. She's going to kill him and then call a Level One field agent to come and dispose of his body - he'll probably end up in that toxic wasteland mixed with radioactive garbage.

Still, he can't help but grin as she slowly draws away, sitting properly back into her chair, considering his newfound knowledge a huge accomplishment.

It's certainly something he will remember for a long time to come.

* * *

Three hours in and he's honestly starting to get bored. He's already spilled his deepest, darkest secrets to May, who has still yet to offer up anything in return, and for a normally talkative person, he's almost out of things to say. He's on his third cup of coffee, and May is actually drinking the tea he'd asked the waiter to bring over, and not that this date isn't fantastic, but how can anyone just sit for hours pretending to be another person, while doing absolutely nothing.

He wishes for a little action.

And five minutes later, wants to take back exactly what he wished for.

May spots their mark before the commander even has the time to alert them to the former mobster's presence, and they're both on high alert as the man sits down on the other side of the coffee shop.

"The exchange is going down soon. Keep your eyes peeled."

May keeps her eyes on the front door to monitor any new guests, and he scans the room, checking for any signs of suspicious activity. The briefcase is by their mark's side, until he turns his head, blinks and then it's gone. He taps his fingers against his temples twice and May shakes her head - no one had entered within the last couple minutes.

It dawns on them at the same time; he can see her eyes widening just as the thoughts appear in his mind.

The waiter.

"I think it might be time to go," he says, keeping eye contact with May as she monitors the waiter she's deemed most suspicious, both waiting for further instructions from their commander.

"Protect the briefcase at all costs."

This is exactly what she had been worried about. They stand, together, keeping the easy smiles on their faces. He picks up her hand and brings it to his lips, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

"It was absolutely lovely to meet you," he tells her and he can feel her trying not to roll her eyes at his antics.

"I look forward to doing this again," she responds, before raising her hand to her face and brushing the shell of her ear with her index finger.

And that's when the shit hits the fan.

* * *

In less than a minute, the front door has been smashed open, and Melinda has made a run for it, ripping her hat off and casting it into the wind, briefcase clutched tightly to her chest.

"What now sir?" she whispers furiously into her comms, but there is no reply and she groans out loud in frustration. There are armed men chasing her, and she is going to regret this later, but all she can do is run towards the docks and leap into the bay.

The water is a shock to her system - but at least it's Spring and she won't be stuck here for too long.

While she swims beneath the docks to find a good hiding spot, Phil is standing in a nearly empty coffee shop, gun pointed to his head by an angry not-so-former mobster. All he can do his flash a smile and raise his arms in surrender, letting them force him to his knees.

They bombard him with questions, asking him who he worked for, who his partner was, whether or not he was ready to die, and he can feel the cool metal of a gun digging into the back of his head.

"I barely know her. Today was our first date. She promised we'd grab a drink together," he tells them over and over, and he really wishes he had paid closer attention during the undercover classes that taught them how to cry on demand, because he could really use a few tears to throw these guys off.

They're relentless in their interrogation - apparently he isn't as good of a liar as he had convinced himself that he was. Four and a half hours later, a man enters via the broken door and Phil almost collapses in relief when he reports to his leader that their men had "lost the girl", that she had "just vanished into thin air".

He weighs his options.

There wasn't a rescue team - he'd have to get out of this one himself. There were three men in the room, all growing restless.

He could take on three men.

* * *

He feels like he's bruised and battered by the time he half runs, half crawls out of the coffee shop, leaving three unconscious bodies behind. Lola is still parked across the street, and all he can hear, all he has been able to hear through his comms for the past couple hours is static.

He needs to get out of here as soon as possible before more guns arrive, but he can't leave without knowing where May is, if she's managed to complete the mission. He contemplates just yelling her name out - shouting for her in the darkness. It's a stupid idea, but he thinks he has a concussion, and he can't think of any other way to find her.

"May!"

"Coulson?"

The reply is quiet, harsh, and surprisingly directly in his ear.

"May! Where are you?"

"I'm in the water."

He frowns - thinking too hard is hurting his head, which is throbbing like there is no tomorrow, and walks towards the docks. Water. The Bay. Right. He was really going to need the medical team to check his brain for permanent damage after this. He worries about how he is going to find her in such a large body of water, but as he walks down the docks, the wood creaking beneath his feet, he spots a figure floating above the surface,

It's May - he can tell as he nears her - also he can't imagine why anyone else would be in the bay at this time of day. Her skin his horribly pale and her lips are blue, and get she seems to be putting all her energy into glaring at him rather than trying to swim back towards the dock.

His body is going to hate him for this tomorrow, but maybe his brain really is damaged, because he toes off his shoes and dives in. The water is freezing, and yeah, he can see why she's angry now, but it's just cold enough to wake him up enough and clear his head.

She presses the briefcase into his arms and he grabs it with one hand, wrapping the other around her and dragging her back towards dry land. She doesn't speak until they finally reach Lola, and she's shivering in the passenger's seat, teeth chattering, her hair dripping water all over the place.

"I was in the bay for five hours."

He has a feeling she is not going to let this one go.

* * *

He's right.

When he returns to New York after a week long stint in medical to make sure he hasn't done any permanent damage, he finds an envelope sitting on his desk.

He grins when he pulls out a Captain America Trading Card, signed like the previous one. There's a note in the envelope too, and he smiles so widely his face begins to hurt.

"Thank you for fishing me out. Eventually."

She is definitely going to get him back for this one.

He can't wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil loses his first team member to a rogue sniper in December of 1992.

He knows in hindsight that he should have seen it coming - they even had a class about dealing with the loss of one's team mate or partner at the Academy. An hour long session every two weeks preparing them for the pain and loss they might have to experience in the future; teaching them the best methods of dealing with it, of coping. In their line of work - death is inevitable - but he doesn't expect it to happen so suddenly, or hit so close to home. He's lost people before, his father, his mother. But this time it's different - this time that there is someone he can blame.

Himself.

He had designed this operation, had handled it from the very beginning. Every single detail had been mapped out by him; he'd been meticulous, organised. It was a level one mission, easy, simple, a milk run for the two level four specialists who had been assigned to his team.

It should have been a piece of cake; one last mission before everyone headed home for the holidays.

Phil has been in charge of half a dozen operations more difficult that this one, all with more danger, more risk. This was supposed to have been a basic retrieval op; two specialists, one to go in, and one to watch the other's back. They had orders to drop and swap intel, and then get the hell out before they could be discovered.

It should have been smooth sailing.

But they had failed.

And now a good agent is dead.

* * *

Phil meets Agents Claire Matthews and Thomas Chan two weeks before their first and only mission together, at a field office in Seattle. He's been a "fully fledged" field agent for nearly two and a half years, and has had a mission success rate of one hundred percent. He knows that the two level four specialists have been assigned to his team to give him a recommendation for promotion to a Level Two clearance, if all should go well.

He stresses and frets about their assessment in the days leading up to meeting the pair, but the moment he does, his worries are gone.

At his base in New York, Phil doesn't have much of a chance to interact with higher level agents - they're mostly level ones and twos who work together on low risk missions and occasionally deal with setup or clean up. Fury is level six, but he also first met the man after confronting him for being a stalker outside a convenience store, so he really doesn't feel quite the same vibe from the guy. Two unknown specialists though - the prospect of meeting them gives him so much anxiety that he can barely sleep the night before.

In some ways, they are nothing like what he's been expecting.

Physically they look like most other specialists Phil remembers from the Academy and occasionally encounters on missions. Agent Chan is very tall, muscled, and seeing him in his official uniform makes Phil question why S.H.I.E.L.D. trained guys like him when they could have men like that. Agent Matthews is a little shorter, leaner, but Phil has never underestimated the strength of a woman, and he feels a small swell of pity for anyone who might make such an idiotic mistake.

Personality wise… Phil doesn't know how to react when Agent Chan manages to crack six jokes in the span of five minutes, and Agent Matthews just stands there beside him with an almost unsettling smirk each time a punchline is thrown into the air. His first reaction is to laugh - which is what Agent Chan appears to specialise in, but then again, he's not sure whether the man's jokes are meant to be funny, or if they're some sort of inside reference meant only for Agent Matthews and that they're purposely messing with him.

His internal conflict over the matter is quickly resolved however, when Agent Matthews makes a comment about the weather outside - there's a blizzard - and Agent Chan drapes his arm over her shoulder, angling his fingers to tug at the end of her ponytail.

"Hey Claire, what do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?"

Phil watches with uncertainty as the question hangs in the silence for a moment, before Agent Matthews elbows Agent Chan sharply in the ribs with a huff.

"Frostbite. You get frostbite when you cross a snowman with a vampire. You told me that in Switzerland last month when we were buried in six feet of snow."

Agent Chan doubles over in laughter, drawing attention from all the other agents at their desks, as Agent Matthews rolls her eyes at him and claps him none too softly across the back of his head. Phil stands opposite them, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and maybe his confusion is really obvious, because the pair seem to take pity on him - at least Agent Matthews does - because she grabs Agent Chan by the arm and begins to escort him out of the room, waving for Phil to follow.

He can hear the snickers from behind him as he hurries to follow the specialists - he thinks that working with them for the next few weeks might not be so bad. They seem to be easy going enough and clearly work well together. And Agent Chan did have some pretty good jokes. He hopes that maybe he can even try a few himself. It would be nice to have someone around who could appreciate his humour.

* * *

Phil has always been a very observant person. He prefers to stand in the shadows and watch the interactions of others over making a point to participate. His training at the Communications Academy had only reinforced this - you could learn so much about a person just by studying their movements, facial expressions, reactions to things. All agents, from those in administration to their tactical teams had the ability to conceal their basic emotions to a certain degree, even from each other - but this was one area where his skills exceeded expectations. It was his job to learn everything he could about a person just by looking at them.

And in the three days he's worked with Agent Chan and Agent Matthews, he's learned much.

Agent Chan is very talkative. Likes to make friendly conversation with whoever he can, likes to "get to know" other people. He jokes around, can find something hilarious in just about any situation. Phil thinks that it might be a coping mechanism, to make light of unfortunate situations, to find hope even in the worst scenarios. But despite all the smiles, Agent Chan is also very quick to anger - there might be some underlying issues there. He's a man with many emotions - Phil sees this first hand when attending one of their training sessions to scope out their skills. The files had a comprehensive list - but seeing it for himself made all the difference in the world.

Agent Matthews is a very attractive woman - only an idiot would deny that. She could easily pass for a model or an actress, but Phil thought her skills were much more impressive than her appearance. He had always known that female field agents and specialists were often disregarded by the more close minded. He saw it for himself from time to time. He never had to intervene; those imbeciles usually scurried away with their tail between their legs and blood pouring from their noses.

Phil is in one of the training rooms, watching the specialists hone their skills, when a pair of Level Two field agents begin to stir up trouble - snickering to one another in a way that he knows means trouble is coming.

"Look at Barbie's legs, wonder what they'd look like wrapped around -"

The man, Agent Landon, doesn't have the opportunity to finish his remark, because before Phil even has a chance to react, Agent Chan has the guy pinned up against the wall, arm at his throat, holding him up so his feet are dangling, unable to reach the ground.

As much as Phil might enjoy seeing a sleazebag who would make such comments pummeled into the ground, he'd hate to lose his specialist for his next mission, and decides it's probably for the best that he try to intervene. He doesn't have much standing as a Level One, but he might be able to talk some sense into Agent Chan. He can't hear what the specialist is whispering, but from the look on the other guy's face, Phil's guessing that the words are none too pretty. He's halfway across the room when Agent Matthews beats him to the punch, running over to her partner and placating him with a hand on his elbow. Phil is not even sure that words are exchanged between the two, but then Agent Chan slowly lowers the guy to the ground, holding him against the wall for a moment longer, before drawing his arm back and breaking Agent Landon's nose with a sickening crack.

Agent Landon's buddy scurries forward and grabs him by the arm, presumably dragging him off to medical, and Agent Chan is shaking his fist, opening and closing his hand with a grimace. Phil takes a step back, unsure of how to handle this situation, scratching the back of his head for a moment before making the decision to let them handle it themselves. There's not much he can do but sit back and watch at this point.

Agent Matthews drops down onto the mats, pulling Agent Chan with her and begins to inspect his hand. Phil can't hear what they're saying; this would be a convenient time to have super hearing to be honest, but they both look pissed even as she runs gentle fingers over his bruised knuckles. He's pretty adept at lip reading, but that is a skill that is not really required in this particular situation - Agent Matthews is clearly angry that Agent Chan defended her, lost his temper, and nearly smashed a colleagues face in, and Agent Chan is clearly annoyed but also ashamed of how he handled the situation.

Their frowns eventually morph into smiles as they speak - and not for the first time, Phil questions the relationship between the two specialists. S.H.I.E.L.D. has it's protocols, but no rules that people aren't willing to break, for a good enough reason. Plenty of agents are in relationships with coworkers - but most aren't involved with those that they actively work with. It makes for too many distractions in the field, especially when you are too busy watching your partner's back to focus on the mission.

The logical part of him thinks that it's too dangerous, too risky. They already put their lives on the line out there - it's too easy to be distracted, lose focus and put others in danger.

The still hopeful part of him thinks that a love like that may be the best kind of love there is. Committed to the cause, committed to your partner. Out there fighting together, having someone by your side who means everything to you. The closest to a normal life a field agent like him will probably ever get.

He doesn't see it happening.

But that doesn't stop him from wanting it.


End file.
